


In Step

by Roseheart18000



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Dean is actually a band nerd, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Work In Progress, because he's stubborn, but won't admit it, what a guy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2513345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roseheart18000/pseuds/Roseheart18000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester wasn't a "band nerd". He knew that for a fact. But after finding himself roped into the world of standing at attention and marching in step, actually having to play his instrument properly, he thinks that maybe it's something he could bare after all. With Castiel Novak as the new leader of the marching band - the drum major - Dean's not sure if he'll be able to put up with it for much longer. Having hated each other since day one, Dean's determined to do everything in his power to make it one difficult season for the young Novak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions & Poor Directions

It was the middle of August, and yet the temperature seemed to be continually increasing, day by day. Not that it was unusual for the summer to be hot, especially not when it was in Lawrence, Kansas. But it seemed that over the course of the last week, it had been a near record high for the town in terms of weather, and all of the children could be seen running around outside, playing games of tag or soccer, paying no mind to the sweltering heat while their parents remained indoors, doing their best to stay cool.

Dean Winchester was all too aware of the heat as he loaded up his car. She was a classic, a 1967 Sport Sedan, 4-door hardtop. A Chevrolet Impala, a given to him by his father once his eldest son had gotten his license. Dean had always loved his dad’s car, and when he came home one afternoon to have his dad give him the keys with a gruff _Take care of her,_ he was ecstatic. He supposed that it made up for all of the missed birthdays, the lonely Christmases Dean spent with his brother while their dad was out doing God knows what. John Winchester was always gone, and constantly reminded his sons that it was due to “work”, though the two boys knew that he was most likely gambling or hustling poker somewhere.

Now he was throwing a backpack into the trunk, filled with hastily packed lunches and a couple of water bottles. The sun was already beating down on the back of his neck, and it was barely nine. He straightened and then headed back into the small, rather beaten down looking house. Dean couldn’t say he was proud of it, but it was home. The paint was peeling and cracked on the sides—something John had promised to fix and never had, and the steps were worn and creaked at the smallest amount of pressure. He had long ago memorized which ones to skip when trying to slip past his dad or brother unnoticed and get out of the house for a while. Dust seemed to collect everywhere, like moths to a flame, and no matter how well their upkeep was the house never seemed to stay clean for long. There was always something to clean up; a spill or mess, often enough there was broken glass from one of his father’s drunken fits.

Dean looked into the kitchen and his eyes narrowed. “Sam?” He called out as he started for the stairs. His hand was just wrapping around the railing when a familiar head of brown hair popped out from around the banister at the top. Once he had stepped into view, Sam stood there with a half-buttoned shirts, holding another one in his hands and frowning down at it.

“I’ll be down in a minute, Dean. I just can’t figure out what shirt to wear,” the younger boy said, pursing his lips and sighing before disappearing again, as if his current situation were the most cumbersome problem he had ever needed to solve.

His brother rolled his eyes and called out as he turned around, “It’s _band camp_ , idiot. Not the friggin’ prom. No one’s gonna care what you’re wearing.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for Sam to make his appearance again. As he finally made his way back downstairs, Dean ruffled his hair before heading for the door, disregarding Sam’s protests as he repeated the offending action. Chuckling at the glare he received, Dean climbed into his car and then started the engine. “C’mon Miss Daisy,” he called out. “Don’t wanna be late the first day. You still have a chance to make a good impression.”

“Let’s get driving then, Hoke,” Sam retorted, raising his brows. That earned him a laugh from Dean as he started down the road.

* * *

 

The drive to the high school was spent in a relative silence, aside from the usual short argument over what music they’re listening to. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole,” was usually the final word, and then Sam was stuck listening to his older brother’s cassette tapes.

Lawrence High was your typical high school. Filled with tired, complaining teenagers who were grateful for a summer break. There was the football field, a gymnasium, cafeteria, even a couple tennis courts out back. At some point, someone had tried to make it look nice, inviting even, but after years and years, there was only so much you could do. There were several overgrown bushes, complete with a couple of ratty, sad looking benches outside the main entrance.

Dean sighed as he slid out of his car, pushing the keys into his pocket and immediately scowling at the bright smile on his younger brother’s face. He was _humming_ as he got out of the car. Dean looked at his in disbelief, shaking his head and letting out an amused laugh.

“Don’t know how the hell you’re so chipper,” he muttered as he swung his backpack over one shoulder. He grabbed his trumpet case and waited as Sam gathered his things from the backseat.

The younger boy rolled his eyes but sent Dean a smile, eyes shining. “Aren’t you excited? I mean, I’ve been looking forward to this for a while, Dean.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. Whoop-di-freaking-doo.” He nodded his head in the direction of the school and they headed inside, Dean leading the way to the band room and the sound of several instruments loudly tuning. No matter how early the green eyed boy arrived, there always seemed to be someone there ahead of him, already practicing or warming up. He was half convinced some kids slept in the band room over the summer, just so they could be ready for when band camp started up.

If it had been up to him, then Dean Winchester would never have even volunteered to be part of his school’s marching band. But he seemed to have a penchant for getting himself into trouble. So after he had been caught screwing around one too many times, an ultimatum was offered. Not so much a choice as he would either face detention for the next couple of weeks or choose an activity to help “discipline” the teen. Knowing his dad would be pissed if he found out his eldest son had gotten himself into trouble yet again, Dean went for the option of being “more involved”. He figured it couldn’t be that hard, there was probably some after-school activity that he could tolerate. It was somehow brought up that Dean played the trumpet—or _used_ to, at least. But that had been enough.

The next thing he knew and the dusty brass instrument was being recovered from wherever-the-hell it had been stored for the past couple of years, and Dean was driving over to the high school far too early in the mornings, in the middle of the summer. It was more of a commitment than he had thought. Long practices after school, football games every Friday night. Yet Dean begrudgingly admitted to himself that he didn’t actually hate it. The kids were pretty cool, and even with what his brother dubbed his “authority issues”, Dean found himself sometimes even _wanting_ to do it right. Get to his drill spot, play the right notes, march in step. He finally felt a part of something.

Even in the spring, when Dean was out on a different kind of field, swinging a bat or throwing a fastball, it just didn’t feel the same. He had always loved baseball—his dad had even taken him out to a couple of games when he was younger, bought him a cotton candy and a hot dog, and actually had a decent time together. But then his mom had passed and things basically went to shit after that. Even so, he felt a kind of disconnection from his teammates; all except for Benny of course.

They had met in seventh grade and become fast friends. Benny, with his crooked smile and charming accent, laidback persona, was just the kind of person that Dean had needed. Even if he hated to acknowledge it—the last thing he wanted was to sound needy, as if he couldn’t take care of himself, which Dean was damn well certain he could—at the time he had been in desperate need of a friend. Sticking together all through high school, now they were in their junior year and Benny was starting to look at colleges while Dean struggled to find a way just to pay for his baby brother to get through school. As well as they knew each other and as good friends as they had become, Dean still steered clear of all topic involving his family. It was just something he never wanted to get into. Unless he got to brag about Sammy, because he was damn proud of the kid.

His dad didn’t seem to really care what he did—so long as Dean refrained from getting himself suspended, or expelled for that matter. Dean suspected that John wasn’t even aware his school _had_ a marching band. He probably hadn’t the faintest clue that his youngest son, only in eighth grade, was personally asked by the director to join them that year. Dean thought that was pretty fricken’ awesome, and was glad for his brother.

They made their way to the band room and Dean smiled politely at his classmates already there, giving Sam a quick introduction before going to get out his trumpet. They would spend the mornings going over and learning the music, and in the afternoons would learn their drill spots, where they would need to march on the field when performance time came. He knew that since Sam was part of the pit, or the front ensemble, and he would be spending the majority of his week inside, working on the music. Which was rather convenient, as Dean considered it to be a major pain in the ass to have to lug all of their equipment to the field and back, day after day.

Dean turned to his brother and sent him a crooked smile as he closed his case. “Don’t worry Sammy. I’m sure you’ll eventually get to playin’ that triangle right.” Sam let out a rather exasperated breath and playfully shoved Dean’s shoulder.

“You’re a jerk.”

The trumpet player grinned. “Right. I almost forgot. You play on the timpanis, right?”

“I do play the _timpani_ , Dean. But, that’s not the only… just forget it.” He sighed, as if he had finally given up on his brother, which only made the older boy laugh and lightly cuff the back of his head, assuring Sam he was only kidding and to not be “so sensitive”.

As the other kids started to make their way into the room a few minutes after Dean, he smiled and went over to his friends as Sam decided to go meet the other members of the pit.

Dean was finishing up showing some clueless freshman how to properly use his valve oil when he felt a hard punch to his shoulder. His original look of irritation slipped into one of amusement when he saw who it way. “What do you want, Jo?” He asked the petite blonde girl, who was grinning at him and lazily spinning a mallet in one hand.

“Haven’t seen you for _months,_ and that’s the greeting I get?” She asked, feigning disbelief.

“Uh, you were the one who just punched me,” Dean deadpanned, trying to hide his smile, though rather unsuccessfully.

“Don’t be a wussy. My grandma hits harder than that.”

The older boy laughed. Jo was in the grade below him, and part of the drumline, playing on the bass drum. He still couldn’t understand how a small person like her could carry around a freaking drum of that size, but somehow she managed. Not that Dean didn’t tease her relentlessly for it, but it was always good-naturedly. They had known each other practically their entire lives, and she was like a little sister to him.

The band director came in a few minutes later, greeting everyone with a warm smile. All of the students responded accordingly. “Good morning, Mr. Shurley.” Dean just nodded his head, leaning against the door frame as several more rather frazzled looking freshmen filed past him, clutching their instruments like their life lines. He smiled in amusement and then walked over to Mr. Shurley.

“Hey Chuck,” he said, with earned him a tired, but still rather fond shake of the head. Dean liked him, Chuck was a good man who simply loved music, and in teaching kids hoped he could spread that feeling among them. He was passionate about what he did, some of the kids practically looked to him as if he were a god. Though Dean knew he was exhausted half the time, as he practically ran the entire music department. He was constantly organizing, scheduling, and trying to evenly spread the funds among all of the programs while still trying to focus on his own classes. Especially right before school started.

“Please, Dean. Mr. Shurley.”

“Sure thing, Shurles.” The look he got made the corners of Dean’s lips turn up and he corrected himself. “So… Mr. Shurley,” he began, eyes scanning the room. The green stopped at the sight of a brunet head bobbing as the young boy chatted animatedly with someone who looked to be around his age. “My brother Sam’s here. He’s actually pretty excited.” Dean chuckled. “Anythin’ you need me to do?”

The older man pursed his lips and then glanced around the room. “I’d appreciate it if you could help your section to tune and…” he eyed one boy, who was looking sadly down at the valve that had fallen out of his trumpet. He marveled at how the trumpeter could achieve that for a moment before sighing, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. “On second thought, there are some things I need to address first, and then I’ll get back to you. Until then, please… you can work with the drum major, Mr—“ He started to gesture behind Dean and whipped his head around as there was a loud crash and a girl was looking down at the cymbals spread across the floor, cheeks tomato red from embarrassment. Mr. Shurley pushed a hand through his hair and then headed over to her, the girl looking as if she were about to cry as he tried to soothe her and collect the golden discs.

Dean let out a breath and then turned around, grateful he was only section leader instead of something like drum major. Dean considered them to be something like the director’s “personal bitch”. Getting to conduct the band and all was pretty good, but it just seemed like far too much work for Dean. They seemed to get berated the most, and Mr. Shurley always had the poor kid running around and doing random crap for him. Though they always were highly praised at the end of the year, it seemed to be far more trouble than it was worth.

He spotted the kid, bent over a desk and scrawling something down onto a piece of paper before turning on his heel to type something into the computer. Dean frowned as he stepped closer,  knowing that he recognized him, but not getting a good enough look to put a name to the face.

The drum major, who made the teen give a start as he turned around, looked at him with wide blue eyes, as if surprised to see him standing there. Dean’s expression quickly changed from confusion to shock, and then morphed into one of irritation. While he generally had grown fond of all the kids in the band, and could get on fairly well with them, there was a certain clarinet player that he couldn’t stand, though if you asked him why Dean would just draw a blank and shrug, simply responding with _I just do._ That boy was now expected to lead them, to tell Dean what to do, to have some kind of authority _._ That kid was none other than Castiel Novak. Castiel fucking Novak.

_Oh hell no._


	2. In Tune & Out of Time

                Dean had never been the best with his words. He couldn’t wax poetry, or whatever the hell the expression was. He hated discussing feelings and crap like that, things that were so damn _changeable._ Hard facts were things he liked. Things that could be said for certain and they wouldn’t change. He supposed that was the main reason why he liked working on cars so much. Sure there were different makes, models, and all that, but he understood the way to handle them. He knew the engines, how the transmissions worked, the brakes. It was all familiar to him and Dean loved that. The fact that he could just head into the garage and start on a car, have her fixed up in a couple hours—so long as it was just a minor issue—that was something Dean could spend his whole day doing. He barely read anything other than car magazines, and hated writing more than a paragraph or two in class. It just never clicked with him.

                Which is why as he looked at Castiel, fairly certain his mouth was hanging wide open, that the Winchester boy found himself at a loss for words. The dark haired boy was looking at him with something akin to discomfort, and that was when Dean realized he was staring.

                He cleared his throat and then fixed an amused smile on his face. “So, Novak. I’d ask if you come here often, but given by your new, well… title, I’d say this is your current mailing address.”

                The other boy simply rolled his eyes and turned back around to continue typing out something on the computer. “Dean, if you have simply come over here to pester me then I would kindly suggest you return to your previous activity. And I am not referring to your heckling the freshmen.”

                Dean scoffed. “Heckling? Who even says that, dude.” He rolled his eyes and then grabbed the paper Castiel had been writing on, eyes scanning over it. “Geez, Novak. I can barely read this chicken scratch,” he muttered, grinning at the other boy when it was snatched out of his hands and he was met with a disgruntled looking Castiel. “C’mon, don’t be such a sour puss, Oscar.”

                An exasperated sigh left Castiel’s lips as he folded the paper up neatly, sticking it into his pocket. “Dean, you are well aware that I do not understand that reference,” he said flatly, looking at Dean with a less than amused expression on his face.

                The trumpet player laughed. “You poor, deprived child.” He walked around to squint at the computer and try and make sense of whatever the hell Castiel had been typing out. His hand reached out to press a key but was quickly slapped away. Dean chuckled and straightened up, looking at the other boy with raised brows.

“You are such a control freak,” he muttered. “No wonder ‘ol Chucky picked you. Get you away from us normies.” He clicked his tongue and grinned at the boy one last time before heading over to where another trumpet player was frantically waving him over, leaving Castiel to glare after him.

* * *

 

                The morning went about as well as Dean had expected. After helping the trumpets to “pull their shit together” as Jo so graciously put it, they split up. The pit went off with their instructor, and so did the drumline, while the brass and woodwinds stayed behind in the band room. Music was passed out and after tuning and playing some warm up exercises, they started to sight-read. Everything soon fell apart after that.

                The trumpets kept playing over the melody that the clarinets were supposed to be creating, the the low brass couldn’t keep in time, while the first flutes at some point realized they were playing a trombone part. Dean didn’t know how the hell that happened. But music was switched and exchanged, Chuck turned the metronome on, and reminded them all exactly what _decrescendo_ meant, and threatened the soloist that if he couldn’t sound like an actual saxophone, someone else would take the part.

                Two hours later an exhausted looking Chuck dismissed them for a lunch break. “Meet at the field in forty minutes,” he said as he headed outside. Since the sports teams were mainly having tryouts inside during the week, they didn’t use the field in the afternoon, which was lucky for Mr. Shurley. The kids spread out inside and out of the band room, though mainly remained in their sections. Dean sat with the trumpets on the steps leading to the second floor, eating his rather squished and sad looking peanut butter and jelly. To complete his lunch he had a bag of broken crackers and a bruised apple. Awesome. He still laughed and joked around with the other kids, giving the freshmen some pointers on how to get on Mr. Shurley’s good side. Starting with, “Don’t ever call him Chucky. Or Chuck, for that matter. Guy hates it.”

He smiled at them and then looked up as Castiel walked by, speaking with the senior clarinet player. “Hey Novak,” he called out, causing the boy to stop. Dean grinned when he saw him excuse himself and head over.

“I was having a conversation,” he said, visibly irritated.

“Yeah. _Were._ Now you’re not.”

“I’m speaking with you. Though I suppose that does hardly qualify for a conversation,” Castiel said in a flat tone.

Dean chuckled, “You’re a real smartass, you know that?”

Castiel looked at the trumpeter with a frown, face an expression of disapproval. Dean always teased him that he was going to have a permanent crease between his brows if he continued to look like that. “Is that all?”

“Watch for this,” Dean replied, rubbing the spot between his brows as he leaned back against the steps. A girl looking between the two of them giggled, and Castiel immediately relaxed his expression, but his jaw was clenched and his lips were pressed into a thin line. The green eyed boy grinned lazily and watched as the other walked away.

Garth, one of the freshmen on trumpet, looked at Dean and raised his brows. “Dude,” he said, shaking his head slightly. He sent Dean a lopsided smile. “You guys fight like my grandparents. And they’ve been married for sixty years, amigo.”

As he stood up, Dean rolled his eyes and tossed the remnants of his lunch into the trash. “Yeah well the difference between us is that he and I aren’t married.” He turned around. “Marriage is a real big commitment, ya know. Plus, I’m not into guys.” With a shrug, he moved back into the band room and then grabbed his trumpet and drill book.

“Do we really have to make dot books tonight?” Garth grumbled as he followed suit, grabbing his own instrument.

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. I know it sucks, but Chuck—Mr. Shurley wants us to. Thinks we can’t remember our drill spots on our own.” He shrugged and sent the younger boy a small smile. “It’s probably ‘cause we can’t.”

Garth looked at him in amusement as he picked up his own trumpet. “Any pointers on marching?” he asked hopefully.

“Point your toes.”

They all met back on the field once their lunch break was over, and set up a marching block. Dean tried to suppress his laughter as he watched Castiel attempt to organize the kids into their proper sections and space them out evenly. Eventually a frustrated Chuck asked Dean to help, and with a smug smile he stepped out of his line and assisted in organizing the students.

Chuck showed them the proper technique for a roll step, and the spent a good ten minutes looking around for his gock block. After the frazzled looking band director headed back to the school to look for it, he left Castiel in charge.

The drum major looked around a little helplessly and Dean kind of felt bad for him. In a totally damn-he’s-gonna-screw-this-up-for-everyone kind of way.

Castiel nodded his head as he swept his gaze over the block again. “Right, well…” he cleared his throat. A silence followed and Dean couldn’t help but laugh quietly. Castiel’s gaze immediately zeroed in on him and Dean looked away. “Mr. Winchester?”

Dean looked up with his most innocent smile. “Yes, sir?” Sam used to always give him the puppy-dog eyes so he thought that he was pretty good with the whole feigning innocence thing. Aside from the chorus of giggles that arose after his words, things remained quiet, Castiel staring at him with a stony expression.

“Something humorous you wish to share with us?”

With a shake of his head, Dean said, “No, ‘course not.” The corners of his lips tipped up and he said quietly, “Maybe instead’a standin’ around though, we should work on our marching technique. He shrugged casually. “It’s… just a thought.”

When he looked to the drum major again, he was looking at Dean with an angry flush in his cheeks, and then spun on his heel to march to the front of the block. “Yes, I was getting there.” He turned around again and looked straight at the trumpet player. “So, _Dean,_ since you seem to be so adept, why don’t you come up here and show us all the proper way to roll step?”

Dean knew he wasn’t the best at marching, and Castiel damn well knew that too. So as he walked up to the other boy, he was on the verge of cursing him out and then leaving. But there was no way in hell he was backing down from this challenge of sorts that had been issued to him. As Dean neared him he muttered something under his breath like, “You’re a real asshole, singling someone out like that.” Castiel gave him a sort of I’m-the-drum-major-so-you’re-my-bitch look, and Dean rolled his eyes. “How do you want me?”

Castiel sighed and then turned sideways. “I’d like you to face this way so they can see the proper way to do it. Chest out, shoulders back, surely you know.”

“Feet together, stomach in. I get it,” Dean muttered as he looked straight ahead. He knew he was going to fucking humiliate himself, and he just needed to find some way to get back at the Novak kid.

“Chin a little higher, Dean.” He grit his teeth but obeyed.

“Relax your upper body.” Dean dropped his shoulders a little. Castiel then clapped him off and he marched a couple of steps.

“Point you toes a little more,” the drum major said.

“Smaller steps.”

“Keep with the tempo.”

Finally Dean snapped. He whirled on the other boy, who looked at him in surprise. “I get it, okay? Quit ridin’ my ass, Novak!” Dean huffed out a breath and glared at him before going back to his spot, curling his fingers tightly around his instrument.

Castiel was quiet for a long moment. Eventually, “Alright. Let’s just… you may talk amongst yourselves while we wait for Mr. Shurley to come back.” Immediately whispers and quiet murmurings rose up among the students. Castiel cautiously made his way over to Dean.

“Dean?”

The other student turned to look at him, still with an angry furrow in his brow. “What d’you want, Nosack?”

Castiel blinked at the name, but brushed it off. “I wanted to apologize. It wasn’t my intention to upset you.”

It was Dean’s turn to look surprised. “Yeah well…” He quickly put the irritated look back on his face. “Don’t be so much of a douche next time.”

A nod. “Yes. I will try to be less…” Castiel paused, as if searching for the right word. “Douche-y next time.”

Dean couldn’t help it. He cracked a smile. “And then maybe I’ll try and listen to your dumbass advice.”

“It’s not stupid,” Castiel said in confusion, as if the very thought was preposterous.

“You’re right, you’re right.” Dean held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, it’s great advice.”

He was rewarded with the smallest of smiles. Castiel nodded again. “Thank you. I was only—“ He frowned. “You were being sarcastic, weren’t you?”

Dean chuckled and clapped a hand onto his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “And you’re finally catching on. Well done.” So maybe it was a little fun to tease the kid. But only because it was so easy.

By the time that Chuck came back, both teens were smiling and for a moment, things were okay between them. Then came the march off at the end of practice, in which Dean threated to “beat his scrawny ass”. That of course did not happen, and the end of it left Castiel victorious and Dean feeling like he really needed to stop sucking so much at marching.

“There’s always tomorrow,” Sam reminded him as they drove home that afternoon, having heard about Dean being one of the first five to lose the marching competition.

Dean nodded his head, feeling confident he could at that he could at least beat his brother. Which when he voiced to the younger boy, got him a weak punch to the shoulder. He relented and agreed that maybe, just _maybe_ Sam could beat him. “I’d probably just let you though. And only ‘cause I’m so nice to you, bitch.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Jerk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello ~ 
> 
> Woo! So here's the second chapter. I'm hoping to maybe update once a week? I think that'll work. I kinda have an idea of where I want this to go...
> 
> Anyway, enjoy, and if you see any mistakes you can let me know!
> 
> ~Fi <3


	3. Absences and Inconveniences

The first time Dean and Castiel met, they could have been friends. The second time put an end to any spark of friendship that could have formed. They could have avoided all of their current problems and troubles that were yet to come if both boys weren’t as stubborn as they were.

It was during band camp of freshmen year. Dean had been told the year before that he would be joining, and was advised to practice over the summer. Of course that meant the Winchester boy did exactly the opposite. He had nearly forgotten that he was even supposed to be joining the band until a week before it started. Meaning Sam had come running up to him and told him excitedly that he wished he could go with Dean on the Monday that he was supposed to leave.

_\---------------------3 years ago----------------------_

“Leave for what?” Dean had asked in a slightly irritated tone. He was bent over the hood of his car, fiddling with some of the gears and levers. It hadn’t started up that morning when he stuck the key into the ignition, and so he was already a little ticked off, trying to figure out what was wrong with the damn thing.

“Umm… band camp? You know, next week?” The younger boy had said, as if Dean hadn’t understood his saying it was ‘nice out’.

“What?” Dean attempted to jerk his head up and look at Sam, but that only resulted in him slamming his head against the metal of the hood. He cursed loudly and gingerly pulled his head back, rubbing at the throbbing spot on his scalp.

“For the marching band,” Sam said slowly, looking at Dean as if he thought his brother was an idiot. As he rubbed the back of his head though, Dean did kind of feel like one.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I got that much. Just didn’t realize it was happening so soon. Kinda lost track of time.”

Sam looked at him skeptically. Dean had always considered himself something of a fantastic  liar, but for some reason his brother had always been able to see right through him. It was actually a little annoying sometimes. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

The older boy looked at him as if his words had whole-heartedly offended him. “Wha— _no,_ I just…” Dean sighed, wiping his hands on his jeans and glaring at the younger boy as he finally gave in. “So what if I did? This whole thing is stupid anyway. I don’t need an extra week to get how to _march around a field._ How hard can it be?”

It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “I only thought you would want to know.” Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his head again, sure there was going to be a bump the size of freaking Montana there. The other boy took that as his cue to leave. So he turned on his heel and was about to leave when he spoke agan, cautiously. “Oh, and umm… Dean?”

“What?” He asked in exasperation.

“You just rubbed grease through your hair,” Sam practically squeaked out, then dashed back inside. Dean swore again, and sure enough, when he passed a hand over the back of his head again, it came away black. He knew right then what a great friggin’ week he was going to have.

* * *

 

Dean did manage to get to camp in time, when that first Monday finally came around. There were only a handful of freshmen that were joining, and Dean knew most of them. Though there was one boy that had transferred to Lawrence at the end of eighth grade. Dean didn’t know much about him, as they hadn’t had any classes together. There were only a few people he was close with anyone, so he didn’t know many of the other kids at his school well. Or they were only on a first name basis with him. Aside from the fact that he played the clarinet, and apparently had some awesome freaking blue eyes (Jo’s words); Dean hadn’t known anything else about this new boy.

They did meet though. And Dean found that beneath his “nerdy exterior”, Castiel was actually a pretty cool guy. Sure, he was inept when it came to pop culture, but Dean could fix that over a weekend or so. Plus Castiel seemed to be able to put up with Dean and his lame jokes for a while, so that was good within itself. The first day was pretty damn good; however the second was when everything fell to shit.

The day started out normal enough, everyone had met in the band room to practice, Dean and Castiel had even exchanged a friendly smile. Then came the time to go out and learn how to march. Castiel had tried to politely explain to Dean that what he was doing was incorrect, but the trumpet player had been too proud to admit it was anything less than perfect. They had started arguing, with the dark-haired boy insisting his technique was wrong, and Dean eventually telling him where he could shove his ‘technique’. They eventually were pulled from the group and got a stern talking to from Chuck.

Though it wasn’t just that one single incident. Throughout the entirety of the next week, Castiel was constantly nagging Dean, telling him he was doing this and that wrong, and the other boy feeling tired and fed up with it. By the fourth day Dean finally snapped and ended up shouting at the other boy for a good fifteen minutes, which only served to earn him another lecture. The two boys ended up ignoring each other after that for quite a while, but would constantly bicker at games and practices.

Dean couldn’t really pinpoint the exact moment when he decided he hated Castiel Novak, but over time he realized he really couldn’t stand the kid. It wasn’t even as if Dean really _hated_ him that much, but everything that came out of his mouth seemed to piss the Winchester boy off and he just found that they couldn’t speak civilly for more than a couple of minutes before it erupted into something more.

\-------------------- _Present_ \----------------------

That hadn’t changed, three years later and he still thought Castiel was the overbearing control freak he had been those first few days of camp. Which was exactly what happened the second day of band camp in the summer before Dean’s junior year.

“Dean, Mr. Shurley asked us to meet at the field five minutes ago.”

Dean grimaced as he heard the familiar voice. He sighed and then turned around, raising his brows at the boy standing before him. He had run out of valve oil the night before, but couldn’t buy anymore, so he was just using some that Chuck kept in the closet, and had let him use in the past. There was no way he was admitting that to Castiel though. “Yeah?” he said, immediately defensive. “So why’re you here then? And not, well, out on the field?”

“He sent me to fetch you,” Castiel said, in that so very Sam-ish, isn’t-it-obvious kind of way.

“Fetch, huh? Didn’t know you cared so much about me, Novak.” Dean was met with an impatient huff. Castiel seemed to do that a lot, at least around him. He smirked a little.

“I was simply doing what he asked.”

“Right. ‘Cause you’re his bitch.”

Castiel pursed his lips. “ _No,_ Dean. It’s because I think it’s important that everyone is out there to learn drill so that we will, I don’t know, have a show. So if the director asks me to track down people who very well may bring us down by not showing up, then I’m going to do just that.”

Right. Because not only was Castiel a control freak, but he was also a _major_ band geek. He always seemed to be in the practice room, playing some new piece or just going over scales. Over and over and over. Admittedly, he was kind of an awesome player—not that Dean would ever say that to his face. He really cared about the marching band and how well they did, and was always riding Dean about practicing. He made it seem as if Dean _never_ practiced, which wasn’t true. Dean simply practiced when he felt that it was necessary. Not exactly the best method, he knew that, but it had been working for him so far.

After a long moment of silence, and once Dean became fully aware of the intense gaze Castiel had set on him, the trumpet player sighed and nodded his head. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec, okay? Just lay off.”

He could practically feel Castiel rolling his eyes, and the boy let out a huff of breath. “Don’t take too long, Dean.”

Dean pushed the cap back onto the oil and shoved it back into the cabinet, then grabbed his instrument and headed for the door. Compared to some of the other kids, his trumpet was dulled and rather sad looking. The valves sometimes would stick when he pushed them in, and he was pretty sure the inside of the damn thing was freaking rusting or something. But it played alright, and Dean knew he wasn’t going to be getting a new one anytime soon. So he did his best to maintain it.

Once he finally had exited the band room, he walked silently alongside Castiel outside of the building and to the field. It was always nicest there in the summer. During football season, the grass was always torn up and brown from mud, leaving divots and holes to twist an ankle in or fall when marching. But in the summer, when the new green hadn’t been trampled by cleats and sneakers yet, it was perfect; almost as great as getting to march on turf.

Chuck was addressing the group when they finally arrived. “Winchester,” he said without looking at the boy, “How nice of you to join us.”

Dean mumbled an apology and hurried to his spot for the first movement. Garth sent him a smile and a small thumbs up, which Dean half-heartedly returned.

They worked on correctly setting their current spots and then were told to go to the next set. Dean went to where he was supposed to stand and then pulled out the dot book he had put together in a half-assed attempt to please Sam. The younger boy had badgered him about it until Dean finally relented and sat down with a package of index cards and a marker. It hung around his neck and he flipped through the first couple to find where his spot was upon realizing that he was no longer near any of the other trumpets.

Dean furrowed his brow as he looked around, and then caught Garth’s eye, who was frantically waving him over. He glanced down and then pursed his lips. “Damnit,” he said under his breath, quickly crossing the field and standing by them. He had been on the wrong friggin’ yard line. “I hate these screwy lefts and rights,” he muttered.

Garth sent him an encouraging smile and vigorously nodded his head. “Yeah, I know what you mean. They flip-flopped it all around, ya know? It’s pretty confusing.” Dean raised his brows but couldn’t help the way the corners of his lips twitched up. He was a little quirky alright, but Dean found himself quickly growing to like the kid.

His smile quickly faded though when he glanced up and met Castiel’s gaze, which was set right on him. The other boy was looking at him with raised brows, and Dean knew he had seen his slip-up. He looked like he was damn near smiling at Dean’s misfortune but right before the green eyed boy got a chance to flip him off, he turned his attention back to the rest of the band and told them to go back one set.

After practice and Castiel singling Dean out _twice_ and telling him he was wrong, they were finally let go and could head back home. The trumpet player was muttering curses under his breath as he put his trumpet away, feeling pretty miffed by the whole situation. Sure, he knew he messed up sometimes and would try and fix whatever it was that he screwed up. But when Castiel did that—and only to him—it made him look like an idiot. He glanced to the side as his brother bounded over to him, smiling widely and looking kind of like an excited puppy.

“How was it? Did you use your dot book? I saw you guys at one point; you looked pretty good.” He asked, still clutching tightly to his chest a pair of mallets.

“Fine,” Dean replied with a  shrug.

“You okay?” Sam asked, frowning a little.

“Yeah.”

He paused. “You sure?”

“’Course I am.”

Sam was quiet for another moment before shrugging. “Whatever you say.”

Dean ruffled his hair as he clicked closed his trumpet case. “Let’s go, bro.” He grinned. “Hey, that rhymed.” He chuckled as his brother groaned and shoved his chest playfully. His free arm came up and wrapped around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him in close as they headed out the door.

The smaller boy laughed and started protesting, weakly trying to push Dean away. They rounded the corner and Dean was too distracted to notice the figure quickly heading down the hall. Both looked up at the same time and suddenly he ran smack into the other person, sending sheet music flying everywhere.

“Shit. Sorry man,” Dean said as he bent down to start picking up the papers.

“It’s fine. I should be more observant,” a familiar voice replied. Dean’s eyes narrowed and when he looked up he came face to face with Castiel Novak.

“Yeah, probably,” Dean mumbled as he straightened and held the music out for the other boy to take. Castiel smiled gratefully and took it, holding an awfully large—and messy looking—pile in his arms.

He knew it was coming, but before Dean could usher Sam outside, the younger boy had piped in, “Hey, you need some help with that?” Castiel looked a little surprised, and glanced at Dean but the eighth grader had already walked over and was holding out his arms. “Dean and I would be happy to help.”

“We would?” Dean said.

“He would?” Castiel said at the same time.

Sam nodded and set a stack in Dean’s arms, leaving the older boy to quickly try and adjust his trumpet and bag in order to carry it. “I guess I uh, would.” Sammy, always eager to help. Which was really freaking inconvenient sometimes.

So the two brothers helped Castiel to bring the music into the band room, and then somehow Sam convinced Dean to stay and help sort it out, meaning they got home an hour later than normal.

Before Dean headed into the kitchen to start dinner, Sam said about the last thing he ever wanted to hear.

“That was Castiel, right?”

“Yeah…” Dean slowly nodded and Sam smiled a little.

“He seems nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~
> 
> So here it is! A little behind schedule; I was away and didn't have internet this weekend, ugh. But I should be around the next one :) Enjoy and just let me know if you see any mistakes.
> 
> ~Fi <3


	4. Waking up & Making up

It was Murphy’s Law that Dean would wake up late the next day, burn the toast he hastily stuffed into the toaster, and misplace the keys to the Impala. In other words, he had a pretty crappy morning. He ran into Sam as the younger boy sleepily trudged into the kitchen, swearing as he dropped the bowl of cereal in his hands, milk spilling over the both of them.

Dean yelped. “Jesus, Sammy! Watch where you’re goin’.” Sam looked down at his shirt with a frown, and then sighed heavily. He grumbled something as he headed into the kitchen to grab some napkins. Dean helped him to clean it up and then they both headed back upstairs to change their shirts. Much later than he would have preferred, Dean finally slid into the front seat of his car and they sped off down the road, heading in the direction of the school.

Arriving just in the nick of time, the two brothers rushed into the school and into the band room. Most of the other students were already there, tuning or cramming in reps of difficult measures. Dean dropped down into his seat with a sigh, and Garth set down his instrument. “You look tired, amigo,” he said, and the other trumpet player laughed.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, rubbing a hand over his face. “Kind of a rough start today.” He shrugged and then fiddled with the tuning slide on his trumpet, only looking up once the band director walked into the room.

He looked just about as exhausted as Dean felt, but still managed to be friendly when he addressed the students. Chuck’s tie was a little rumpled and one of the buttons on his shirt wasn’t done up, but nobody had the heart to tell him. It was better to just let it be and he would eventually figure it out. Hopefully at least. He looked like he had only had time to brush one half of his hair, as the left side was smooth but the right stuck up every which way, and was rather amusing to look at.

Chuck smiled. “Good morning every one,” he greeted. “How are we all today?” There was a chorus of ‘good’s and ‘okay’s and Dean just nodded his head. He wasn’t exactly feeling _great_ but he wasn’t feeling too crappy either. A nod to him simply meant, “Yeah, I’m here.”

It was one of those days where he just felt exhausted but he couldn’t be sure why. The night before his dad had come home completely smashed, and Dean had to help him into bed. John had really let himself go, and it hurt for Dean to watch his father go through that. Though his mother had passed when he was still very young, so he couldn’t very well remember how his dad had been before all of that happened. The Winchester boy was anxious for the day to be over, although he found himself not wanting to go home after band.

Dean was contemplating where he could take Sam that afternoon when Chuck started talking again, giving them the “lowdown” of what they were going to be doing that day. After some breathing exercises and warm ups, they would play through the music and then head out to the field to practice the first couple of drill spots. “I hope after a good night’s sleep you’re all feeling refreshed and ready to go.” Chuck smiled as Dean tried not to roll his eyes and then led the students in their first exercise.

Sometimes if Chuck got really into the music, he would to get a little frazzled, and easily disturbed. Which is why when the dynamics suddenly went up to fortissimo he made them stop and repeat the transition again and again, yelling something about, “You’re not _resonating!_ ” Dean heard one of the clarinets squeak as they tried to play with more force, and grimaced slightly. He leaned back in his chair as the band director’s focus turned to the five now scared looking students, clutching onto their instruments. They played with him for a few moments before he allowed everyone else to join them again.

It was kind of exasperating, but once Chuck finally allowed them to play for more than twenty measures, Dean enjoyed himself. He liked the music, plus there was a trumpet solo. Seeing as he was the oldest in the section, it would be a cake walk to get it. Unless Garth or one of the others was some sort of Louis freaking Armstrong. He looked over at the younger boy suspiciously, but when they met each other’s gaze, Dean was sent a thumbs up. A soft chuckle escaped his lips and he smiled in return before turning back to focus on the band director.

After Chuck so graciously informed the sousaphone player that he sounded like, “Crap. Literal, actual crap,” they played through the first piece again. Much later than anyone of them would have liked, they played through all of the music once. Fortunately, the group sounded much better and Chuck granted them all a five minute break. There was quiet cheering from most of the students as they got up and wandered over to their friends.

Dean let out a breath and sent Jo a small smile as she sauntered over to him, lightly hitting his shoulder. Yet again. “Hey small fry.”

She rolled her eyes and stretched up onto her tiptoes. “I’m almost as tall as you, jerk.” Dean raised his brows, looking down at her in disbelief but Jo just nodded her head as if to reassure her point. “It’s true. Me and your little bro. We’re gonna be giants above you one day.”

The trumpeter ruffled her hair. “Yeah. Whatever you say.” With a scowl, the blonde reached up to swipe his hand away and then try to fix her hair.

“Speaking of, where is Sam anyway?”

Dean looked around the room and then shrugged. “I dunno. Off with the pit somewhere. I swear they’re tryin’ to initiate him into their cult or something.”

Jo raised her brows. “Cult?”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded, casting his glance around the room before lowering his voice and saying jokingly, “I swear there’s some weird ass voodoo crap goin’ on with that marimba player.” Jo laughed as Dean shrugged, a light smile crossing his features. “I’m not even kiddin’ you. They got their little pit clique goin’ on. Kinda like you guys in drumline. It’s a little scary, to be honest.”

His friend rolled her eyes, lightly whacking his head before heading over to her drum, hearing Mr. Shurley telling them all to be outside in ten minutes. She hoisted the harness for the drum over her shoulders and then shot Dean a grin before leaving with the rest of the drummers.

* * *

The entire drive home that afternoon, Dean had to listen to his brother go on and on and _on_ about Castiel freaking Novak. He didn’t even know when the hell the kid had met his baby brother, but he was damn sorry that he did. Sam thought he was just the best. Dean eventually reached over and turned the radio almost all the way up, nearly deafening the both of them.

Sam yelped and slammed his hand against the dial, effectively shutting it off. “What the hell, Dean?”

“Language, Sammy.” Dean never usually chastised his brother for what he said, but he was feeling especially pissy right then, so everything Sam said kind of ticked him off.

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you.” He could _feel_ the younger boy rolling his eyes. Dean grit his teeth but didn’t say anything, leaving Sam to huff out a breath and just continue speaking. “What is with you? You’re fine and happy all day, but the moment I actually bring up making a _friend,_ you—”

“He’s not your friend,” Dean quickly snapped.

Sam huffed out a breath and gestured at his brother. “You do _that_! Why can’t I enjoy myself, Dean? Is this about Castiel? If there’s something sketchy about the guy just tell me.” He looked at the older boy helplessly and Dean felt rather lost. There wasn’t really anything he had on Castiel that would constitute Dean calling him ‘sketchy’.

So he just ended up silently shaking his head and then mumbling, “Do what you want. Whatever.”

With a sigh of exasperation, Sam slumped down in his seat, arms folded over his chest and looking out the window. Maybe Dean felt a little guilty for upsetting him, but he remained quiet, silently glowering in his seat as they spent the rest of the car ride in silence.

Dean was well aware that hadn’t been his proudest moment, but he was too damn stubborn to admit it. Sam was always complaining that Dean needed to swallow his pride about things like that and just admit he was wrong, but the green eyed boy never could. He was adamant over the fact that Castiel Novak was the worst kid in the marching band—though not the worst musician, he would begrudgingly admit—and probably who Dean disliked most in the whole school. But he knew that if he thought about it too hard, he would realize that maybe there really was nothing to dislike about him, and Dean was not willing to make a change like that on such short notice. He couldn’t just automatically reprogram it into his mind that Castiel was one of the ‘good guys’. That would just screw things up. Dean had realized a long time ago just how much he didn’t like change, though for him it seemed to be unavoidable. Change was an ailment that he couldn’t shake off. Like his mom dying, or his dad just skipping town for a month, then showing up drunk off his ass and expecting Dean to clean up his mess. He had enough change to last him for a long time, and really didn’t need any more. If everything could just stay as it was, he would be okay.

When they arrived back home, Sam quickly went inside and up to his room, slamming his door closed behind him. Dean huffed and sank down onto the couch in the living room, glaring across to the faded paint of the wall. There were a few cracks here and there, and there had been some sort of wallpaper at some point. But there was evidence of someone trying to paint over the peeling mess it had become. That was just another empty promise that had been made by John about fixing something. He just never got around to it, he told them.

There was a note left one the counter with Dean’s name at the top. His dad had scratched something out in barely legible handwriting, and the teen had to squint to make out what it said:

_Dean,_

_Something came up. I have some work things to address and will be gone for a couple of days. Don’t worry about me. I left some money for you and Sammy. Look out for your brother until I get back._

_Dad_

With a sigh, Dean crumpled the note up and then threw it in the trash, muttering a, “Thanks, Dad.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and then sighed, looking inside at the envelope with money left for them. With the way Sam had been eating the past few weeks, it might only last them two days unless the kid calmed the frick down with his eating habits.

That night he called his brother down for dinner—which consisted of some microwaveable meals he had grabbed out of the freezer. What was supposed to be Shepherd’s pie and then some kind of turkey dinner. Dean gave the less gross looking one to Sam. He frowned down at his own plate, poking at the grey colored meat. “Sammy I don’t think this is edible.”

Sam, who had clearly forgiven him for earlier that afternoon, chuckled and stuffed a piece of turkey in his mouth. “You better eat it before it eats you.” A piece of turkey was placed on Dean’s plate soon after that though, and Sam simply shook his head at the older boy’s protesting. “M’not gonna let my brother die from eating icky slop,” he mumbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

Dean snorted, shaking his head a little. “Thanks,” he said quietly, eating the turkey as he pushed away the other plate. It did taste significantly better than the Shepherd’s pie had looked, and Dean was grateful that his brother was so awesome. When they finished Dean surprised Sam with an ice cream sandwich and grinned at the way the younger boy’s face lit up.

“It’s not July anymore,” he had said, even as he unwrapped the treat. There had always been an unspoken rule between them that ice cream sandwiches could only be eaten in the first real month of summer, kind of in celebration. Dean shrugged as he bit into his own. “Call it a little… you-got-outta-seventh-grade reward.” He chuckled as he licked the melting ice cream from the bar, before it started to run down his thumb.

All in all, the evening ended much better than the day had begun. It seemed like Dean and Sam had made up, and while the youngest Winchester wasn’t still talking about Castiel, his brother decided that he wouldn’t even mind if he did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~
> 
> So yes, I've kinda fallen behind again. I'm posting two chapters this week and hopefully two next week, and then be back on track. Or at least that's the plan.
> 
> As always, enjoy and feel free to leave a comment!
> 
> ~Fi <3


	5. No Violence & A Heavy Silence

Dean and Sam were actually early to camp for once, and had a few minutes to just mill around. That was how the trumpet player ended up being recruited by Chuck to help with a few things. They needed to get things setup before the other students got there, as they had left the band room a mess the day before when heading home.

Sam was doing something with the pit equipment in the room down the hall when no other than Castiel Novak entered the band room, setting his bag down and looking rather surprised to see Dean. Both teens didn’t say anything for a long moment, but Castiel was the first to speak up and break the awkward silence that had settled. Dean was admittedly relieved, he felt like he was suffocating in the thick air.

“What are you doing here?” Well, at least the said _something._

Dean rolled his eyes. “Same reason as you.” He raised a brow as he grabbed another chair from the stack of them, setting it down in the row of the semi-circle he was making. “For, ya know, band?”

“Mr. Shurley asked me to help set up.”

“Yeah well me too.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything else, instead moving over to where Dean was and grabbing another chair, placing it right next to the one that had just been set. He wasn’t going to complain about the help, but Dean knew that Castiel most likely didn’t want to work with him as much as the trumpet player didn’t want to work with the drum major. They finished setting up the chairs soon enough, and though it was quiet, no punches had been thrown on insults shouted, which was a plus.

The pair headed back over to Mr. Shurley and before Dean got a word out, Castiel had interjected and said, “We finished, Mr. Shurley. Is there anything else you need?”

Dean’s only thought as they went to the office to do another task was that he wouldn’t be in this situation if Castiel wasn’t such a freaking kiss-up. They waited by the printer as it printed out sheets, and Dean leaned against the band director’s desk, eyes narrowed as he stared across the room. It was rather disorganized, with papers scattered around, and books stacked randomly on the shelves. Some random second page for a flute’s music was sitting atop his desk and Dean let his gaze drag over the plastic laminate surface of the object. It was covered in little scratches and marker streaks, and the plastic was peeling off at the corners, the way it always did. His computer was pushed back to the side, and Dean leaned back to see what was on the screen.

“Dean.” He looked up at the sudden voice, raising his brows at Castiel.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think you are doing?”

Dean rolled his eyes as he pushed himself off of the desk, walking over to the other side of the room where the printer was, and where Castiel had been patiently standing. “I was just having a look around.”

He heard the little disapproving sigh leave Castiel’s lips before he said, “There is a  fine line between ‘looking around’ and being nosy. Take care not to cross it.”

“Yeah well there’s a fine line between being annoying and pissing me off,” Dean muttered. “And I think you’re about to cross it.” He folded his arms over his chest and raised his brows, looking down at the shorter boy.

Castiel sighed again and grabbed the stack of papers as it finished printing out. “It wasn’t my intention to piss you off, Dean.” He walked over to the desk and set them down on it, before turning to look at Dean again. “Now could you please help me?”

He wasn’t really upset, at least not anymore. With a sigh, he headed over to the desk where Castiel had already pulled up a chair and was working on stapling pages together. That left Dean to sit in Chuck’s chair, which he thought was pretty awesome as he got to spin around in it. He took a couple pieces of paper and lined them up before stapling them together.

The two boys again worked in silence until the job was done, and then they each took their own stack to bring back to their teacher. He was thrilled when he received them, thanking the pair before sending them off to get their things together to run through the music again. By that time the majority of students had arrived and were already warming up, so Dean wasted no time in getting out his trumpet and the tuner Chuck had been letting him use for the past couple of days. Things went a lot better than they had prior days and Chuck was in a much better mood as he told everyone to head out to the field.

* * *

The marching had improved as well, even for Dean. He stopped whenever they reached the end of a set, toe pointed up if he was moving forward or painfully on his tip-toes if he was going back. At one point, Castiel had even sent him a small smile, which actually left Dean feeling taken-aback and confused. They weren’t even friends, he had thought. Why was he suddenly… acting friendly? Maybe he should have yelled more when they were stapling papers. Dean was pulled from his thoughts though as Castiel lifted his hands again and calmly started, “One, two. One, two, three, four…”

Dean stumbled a little bit that time as he stepped off.

They finished learning the drill for movement two that day and were instructed to go from the beginning for a full run through of the first two songs. The trumpet player was well aware as he moved to his starting set just how quickly everything was going to fall to crap. It turned out that he was wrong though.

It happened a lot quicker than Dean originally thought.

Within the first two sets kids were in the wrong positions and looked around cluelessly, some even lowering their instruments and looking at the older kids with helpless expressions on their faces. Chuck looked like he was going to start tearing his hair out, hands fisted in large chunks of it before waving his hands madly, trying to get Castiel’s attention. After a few seconds, the drum major finally stopped his conducting, and if Dean was being honest, the kid looked a little relieved.

“Well,” Chuck said, trying to remain calm. “That was… a train wreck, to say the least.”

“I’ll say,” Dean muttered, and heard one of the trumpet players giggle next to him. He shot her a smile.

Chuck had them repeat the sets for the first movement an exhausting number of times, continuously saying, “One more time, then we’ll move on.” Dean didn’t think that even he lied as much as the goddamn band director did. After about twenty fucking more times, he finally let them march through the second song without stopping. “Alright.” He clapped his hands together. “Shall we try this again? Castiel?” The drum major nodded and then climbed up onto his ladder again to conduct them.

All Dean could say was that it was a whole lot better than the first run through. Chuck was even smiling when they reached their last spots for song two, and stopped. Castiel lowered his arms, and looked to the man expectantly, who sent him a thumbs up before waving them in.

Chuck had never been one for giving inspirational speeches, that wasn’t who he was. So it came as no surprise to the upper classmen when he stood in the middle of the small circle of students and said, “We all know today had a rather rocky start. To be honest, we looked like absolute crap.” A few murmurs of agreement. “But, by the end of it we—pardon my French—pulled our shit together and got thorough. Well done, guys.” There was a chorus of laughter and then someone suggested they all put their hands in the middle and then shout something.

So on the count of three, Chuck had the entire marching band yell out, “Go band!”

They all were sent on their way and Dean felt like an idiot as he walked away. He was surprised by a sudden presence at his side, and looked to his right to see Castiel. Dean’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Somethin’ you want, Novak?”

Castiel shook his head and said, “I simply wanted to walk alongside you. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” The trumpeter did not have a response to that, and simply stared at him dumbly for a long moment shrugging and looking straight ahead again.

They walked in what could be considered a companionable silence, but Dean knew that it really wasn’t. Castiel was probably plotting how he could next publicly humiliate the other boy, while Dean was trying to find a way to avoid that happening. If he really stopped to think things through, he would probably see how ridiculous he was being. It wasn’t completely unheard of to actually _want_ to talk to someone, he did know that. But Castiel wanting to talk to _him?_ That was some pretty strange business.

Dean went and got his brother once they reached the school, after a curt goodbye with Castiel. His brother smiled widely when he saw the dark-haired boy and waved to him as they left, which was returned with a wave no less enthusiastic. Dean chuckled and ruffled Sam’s hair as they headed out the door.

Once they got back home Dean scrounged together something for them to eat. Looking down at the half filled bowl of frosty flakes and a peanut butter sandwich, Dean sighed heavily. “Sammy, I gotta make a supply run or somethin’. This is… it’s pitiful, to be honest.”

The kid laughed as he took a seat, sliding the bowl over to himself. “Where’s dad? He run off again on ‘business’?”

Even if they did kind of have a deadbeat dad, Dean still got pretty defensive if Sam or anyone said something offensive about him.

“Shut up,” he muttered, taking a bite of his rather stale sandwich. Lousy peanut butter with old bread was not a very good combo, he quickly discovered.

He briefly wondered what Castiel was having for dinner, and if it was any better than what the Winchesters’ were having. Then Dean asked himself why he would even think something like that. He quickly pushed those thoughts from his traitorous mind away in favor of finishing off the last couple bites of his sandwich.

The two brothers headed out to the store that night to pick up some of the necessities; bread, some meats and cheeses so they could eat something aside from peanut butter, a couple of fresh apples, some vegetables—but only at Sam’s insistence—and of course, pie. That was bought on Dean’s behalf, and the teen was feeling pretty good as they drove back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again~
> 
> Whoop!! So here's the second chapter for today!
> 
> ~Fi <3


	6. Almost Lovers & Spinning Colors

Chuck had told them that the last couple of days the band would not only be joined in the afternoon by the pit, but by the color guard, too.

The color guard. Dean had never met a bunch quite like them. Charlie Bradbury was captain, and she was an outgoing, at times outspoken, and rather excitable girl. Who also happened to be one Dean’s favorite people. She made it clear that the band probably wouldn’t ever have a good show without the color guard.

“Yeah, you guys add just a couple visual points, but…” Dean would shrug, but then was always met with a swift hit to the arm—much like Jo.

“You losers wouldn’t get anywhere without us,” she’d say with a smile, and the trumpet player would roll his eyes but laugh.

“Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

So Dean was pretty glad that he’d finally get to see his friend again. Of course, the band still needed to spend the morning warming up and playing, while he was sure the color guard would do the same thing. Except instead of playing they twirled. _Spun,_ as Charlie would constantly remind him. “We don’t twirl flags. I forgive you for your ignorance though, don’t feel obligated to apologize.” He hadn’t known her as long as Jo, but she at times was like the little sister Dean never wanted—but was glad he had.

The Winchesters were just a few minutes behind schedule as they left the house, but Dean was blaming his brother for that. If he hadn’t spent so damn long trying to make his sandwich look perfect, they wouldn’t be in that situation.

As it turned out, they still managed to arrive a few minutes early, and Chuck greeted them as they passed. “Heya Chuck.” Dean grinned, despite the disapproving look he received from the teacher.

In the band room they Dean got his trumpet out and Sam disappeared to go practice some of his own parts.

Two seconds later and Castiel walked into the room. Dean was content with them just ignoring each other and continued to silently fiddle with his trumpet until a voice said, “Good morning, Dean.”

He looked up, then around. Castiel laughed softly, a quiet rumbling sound that was actually kind of nice. “Yes, I was directing that at you.”

“Right, yeah.” Dean looked back down at his instrument. “’Mornin’.” He hoped Castiel wouldn’t try and further interaction, but luck was not on his side that morning. The other boy set his little bag down and then actually tried to speak with Dean. Make freakin’ small talk.

“How are you feeling about the show?”

Dean narrowed his eyes, looking up at him. He finally set his trumpet down and then rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, Castiel. We don’t have to do this.”

It was the drum major’s turn to look confused. “I’m afraid I don’t understand…”

A sigh. Dean gestured between them with a shrug. “This. The… being friendly crap. You don’t have to do that, you know.”

The furrow in Castiel’s brow only deepened. “Dean, I was never—“ he was cut off by a smug sounding voice from the doorway.

“Hey boys.” They turned to see a red-haired girl with a wide smile stretched across her face looking between the two of them. Dean closed his eyes for a moment and then grabbed his instrument again, walking across the room and sitting down in his chair. “Geez, someone’s grumpy.” Charlie practically skipped into the room and ruffled Castiel’s hair before sitting in Chuck’s desk chair, spinning around in it. That brought a small smile to Dean’s face. “There’s that award winning smile,” the girl went on with an amused expression. “So Castiel, how’s this nerd doin’?”

That was one other thing. _Everyone_ seemed to like Charlie, which included Castiel. They seemed to be best friends or something, which was a little irritating at times. Only because she was always insisting that the two of them should hangout sometime. “I think you’d really _like_ Castiel.” Dean was just convinced that she was trying to set them up.

Dean tried to not listen to their conversation as they spoke, but seeing as they were the only three in the room; it was hard not to listen to what they were saying. Castiel had asked for Charlie’s opinion in what he should do about a certain seventh grader who was having trouble marching. He didn’t quite like what Charlie suggested and she sighed heavily, saying, “Then why’d you ask for my _opinion?_ ”

The trumpet player let out an ugly snort and she spun in the chair, looking at him. “Would you care to add something, Dean?” she asked, though there was amusement in her voice.

With a shrug, Dean looked at the two. He smiled and then looked at Castiel as he said, “I think that one of the advantages of bein’ the drum major—ya know, Chuck’s right hand man—is that you can ask for advice, but you don’t necessarily have to take it.”

The dark-haired boy laughed softly as Charlie huffed out an amused breath. “Okay, Kirk. What do you suggest?”

Dean moved his gaze to Castiel again with the corners of his lips tipped up, thinking to himself that he liked making the other boy laugh. And apparently he understood Dean’s lame attempts at quoting Star Trek. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

After Charlie had grabbed the flags and left with a, “peace out, bitches,” Dean sat in his seat, making marks on his music as the other students slowly began to trickle in.

Practice went by without a hitch, and then they were given a lunch break. Dean dropped down beside Garth and let out a heavy sigh, his head falling back. “Everything alright, muchacho?” The younger boy sounded genuinely worried, and Dean laughed softly.

“Yeah. I just don’t know how today’s gonna go. With tryin’ to put it all together and everything.” Garth nodded in understanding, which made Dean smile a little more.

“I get that. It could be a-okay, smooth sailing, or it all falls to crap. Think we’ve kind of been favoring one of those all week though. Can you guess which one?”

He was rewarded with another laugh and then got his hair mussed.  Garth smiled goofily and took a large bite of his sandwich.

The pair continued to talk pleasantly and eat their lunch while other members of their section started to join them, chattering animatedly. Eventually another figure joined them, a definitely _not_ trumpet player, and the talking died down for a moment. Garth, the ever pleasant freaking happy-go-lucky kid he was, was the first to speak up. “Hey Castiel. What do you have for lunch?”

Castiel honestly looked surprised that he was being addressed, but responded with a simple, “Turkey and cheese.”

“Is it any good?”

“Very. I believe that is supported by the fact that I am eating it,” Castiel deadpanned.  It wasn’t as if he had meant to sound rude or anything, but Dean still couldn’t help the laugh that suddenly bubbled up in his chest. All eyes were suddenly on him.

“What?” Dean said defensively. “It was funny.” He looked to Castiel and received a small smile.

Garth just sighed dramatically and mumbled, “It wasn’t supposed to be.” The two older boys just looked at each other and couldn’t help but smile again. It was… kind of weird, but Dean didn’t mind all that much.

For the rest of lunch it was Dean and Castiel talking with occasional interjections from Garth. Dean learned that Castiel wasn’t nearly as much of a nerd as he had him pegged down to be. “What do ya mean you’ve never seen _Star Wars_? Dude, that needs to happen. Sooner rather than later. Marathon it or something.”

As they were heading across  to the field, Dean was suddenly joined by Charlie, who was sending him a really weird smile. “What is it?” Dean said suspiciously, and she just bumped his side, adjusting her flag bag on her shoulder.

“First, this thing kills. Second, I think you guys would be so cute together.” At Dean’s blank expression, she sighed heavily and then gestured ahead of them. “Castiel.”

Dean made a face and then shook his head. “Seriously? Oh come _on_ Charlie. Think you’re still in one of your fantasy games. Not gonna happen. We aren’t even friends.”

The red head shrugged one shoulder and continued walking alongside him quietly for a moment. That didn’t last long though. “But if you were?”

“Drop it.” Dean sent her a look and Charlie held one hand up in surrender.

“Fine, fine. I’m just saying—” The trumpet player abruptly stopped walking and Charlie huffed out a breath. “No need to be such a drama queen. _I get it_. Geez.” She rolled her eyes and then continued on her way down to the field, forming an area for the color guard while the band had their marching block.

The block didn’t go nearly as well as it had the previous days, as all of the freshmen were craning their necks trying to watch the color guard. Dean had to admit that when all of their flags spun in sync it did look pretty freaking cool, not gonna lie. But Chuck needed the band’s attention, so that’s what he was giving him.

They were stopped after a little while for a short lecture from Chuck about respect that Dean knew was coming, and was probably the same one he gave every year.

The pit simply looked bored, because if you weren’t on a mallet instrument you basically just stood around while everyone warmed up, watching clouds and pretending you were paying attention if the band director looked at you. At least, that’s what it looked like from Dean’s perspective. He didn’t think there was much to practice in the music when you were on cymbals.

Finally, they all came together to run through the first couple of sets. As it turned out, the guard had been working on drill when the band wasn’t occupying the field—or anyone else, for that matter—so they really looked like they had their shit together. Dean did feel bad for one of the trombones though; since they went to the wrong drill spot they were whacked with a flag. The girl was apologizing profusely to the rather dazed looking musician, who shook his head and assured her that he was okay.

By the end of practice, Chuck made probably the worst decision in the history of bad decisions. “Alright, guys. Let’s try and run the first song.” The entire band looked around at each other in alarm, but dutifully went to their starting spots.

“Here were go,” Dean muttered, getting set when Castiel put his hands up.

Surprisingly, things actually went fairly well. That is, until one of the new girls on rifle line in the color guard tossed her weapon and didn’t catch it. It was even that, but she was _so_ off that it buzzed through the air and hit one of the flute players right in the back, knocking him down with a yelp.

There was a collective ‘ooh’ from the band as the kids all grimaced. The kid lay on the ground for a bit before finally getting up, wincing a little while the girl who had been on rifle looked like she wanted to cry. Chuck sighed heavily and then went inside with the boy to get him some ice.

“Well this sucks.” Dean looked up as Charlie walked over, a flag leaning against her shoulder and a thoroughly disappointed look on her face. “She totally had the double this morning too, which is the worst part.”

Dean just shook his head and huffed out a laugh, lightly pushing her shoulder. “You are somethin’ else. Maybe you should go talk to her—she’s not lookin’ too good.”

Charlie looked over her shoulder and sighed. “Duty calls.” She turned and hurried over to the girl, saying something that made her sniff and give a jerky nod, walking dejectedly over to grab her rifle.

Eventually Chuck came back out and sighed as he walked across the field. “Alright. Let’s try this again and bring the injury count down to zero, okay?” He gestured to Castiel, who nodded and climbed back up his ladder to stand on the podium. He counted them off and then the band tried again, the outcome being that surprisingly, they did okay. It wasn’t their best, but not their worst either. Chuck seemed satisfied enough and sent them on their way.

Unfortunately the entire freaking ride home Sam was gushing over the color guard, going on about how cool they were. “And did you see when they had that ripple at the” And on, “… and the swish when they” And on, “… oh did you see those gun things? They were really cool.”

Dean just nodded along with “Uh huh”s and “Yeah”s and then one, “They’re called rifles, Sammy.” The younger boy playfully pushed his shoulder and went chattering on.

Even if he still has to eat a lousy peanut butter sandwich for dinner that night, if only just to finish it all up, it was the first meal in a while that Dean actually enjoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~
> 
> I'm adding the next two chapters now so I'll be all caught up. At least in my mind. Then I'll got back to one about every week and hopefully stick with that. Enjoy!
> 
> ~Fi <3


	7. The End & A New Friend

Dean was surprised to find that on the last day of band camp, he was actually feeling like he was going to miss it. Not the whole memorizing music and marching part, per se, but the kids there, the whole dynamic. He liked it. Of course they would also have practices twice a week from then on and then games on Friday nights, plus a couple of competitions towards the end of the season that Chuck was especially excited for, but that was it. Then it was over until the next year. Of course Dean had baseball in the spring to fill that gap, but it wasn’t the same. He loved it, but things just worked differently on that field than out on the torn up grass with your instrument and a shako.

When he got to the school that morning, he could already see the color guard out on the grass in front of the school, practicing tosses. Sam was amazed of course. Dean thought it was pretty cool, too, but he wasn’t going to blatantly stare at them as they walked past.

Dean had to smack his arm and pull him out of the way of a lamp post as they headed into the building with a, “Watch it, you idiot.”

The pit equipment had finally been brought into the band room, so when the band played for the first half of the day there finally wasn’t awkward pauses where someone on say, the vibraphone was supposed to play.

The music was played through without a hitch, which Dean was very glad for. It admittedly sounded much better with the pit playing with them. After all, cymbal crashes at the right moment just seemed to pull everything together. He liked listening to their little cadences they played, and the chimes also sounded pretty awesome. Just because Dean really liked the sound of the chimes.

There was one pitfall to them playing outside though. (Dean had a good laugh with himself over that one). Half the kids in band were forced to lug that equipment outside. The guard used to have to help too, but after explaining they had their own equipment to carry, Chuck had begrudgingly let them go. Which meant Dean was stuck lugging the stand for the gong out the door and over to the field, then needing to walk back to grab his instrument.

He was glaring at the figure in Chuck in front of him as he headed back to the school, and when he passed by Charlie, she sent him a smirk. Dean was planning on flipping her off, but then Chuck turned around to ask him something.

“You got lucky,” he muttered, hearing her laugh as he jogged over to the band director.

Unfortunately, what Chuck needed next was for Dean to push one of the timpani out to the field for him. He couldn’t very well say no, but he could grumble the whole way back to the building.

He bumped into Castiel on the way, rather literally. As Dean was rounding a corner, not paying any attention, so was the clarinet player. With an “oof” he stumbled back, dropping the papers in his hands.

Dean let a laugh escape as he bent to pick them up. “Weirdest thing. I’m havin’ a bit of déjà vu right now.” He grinned as he handed the papers over to Castiel, who accepted them with a sheepish smile. The kid seemed like he was afraid Dean would snap at any moment. Dean was about to tease him for it, but thought better of it when he figured he was just under a crap ton of pressure from Chuck. He had been going on about how that year was going to be their best show ever, and they were gonna have a great year, blah, blah, blah.

Castiel slowly nodded his head as he tucked them under his arm. “Yes, that generally is what occurs when one feels that—” He paused. “This situation has been experienced before. You were not being serious were you?”

Dean looked down for a moment to try and hide his smile. “Nice job, Novak.” He ruffled the boy’s hair as he passed him, heading in the direction of the band room, yet again. No one was in there so the green eyed boy took the liberty of sitting in Chuck’s chair and spinning around in it for a bit, laughing softly when he finally got up and stumbled into the desk.

He figured he had some time to kill, since he noticed Chuck’s drill book was inside. The man would need that before they started, mainly so he could yell at them about the angles of their lines that were off by a step or two. Dean knew the nice thing to do would be to bring it out to him. The _responsible_ thing. And while Dean loved wasting time as much as the next guy he didn’t want to be that much of a jerk. So before he went over to the timpani he tucked the drill book under his arm.

When Dean rolled the big ass thing out he just stuck his trumpet on top and hoped that Chuck wouldn’t notice. It was rather irritating though. The wheels seemed to favor the left or some shit, as that’s the direction they seemed to roll in whenever he tried to push it forwards. When it came time to push it off the curb, Dean could recall few times he had been as nervous as he was at that moment. He grimaced as he rolled it off, though it clanked onto the pavement without so much as a scratch. “Alright,” Dean said to himself, nodding a little. “Not bad.”

By some miracle, he didn’t get caught by Chuck. The man was too focused on trying to organize what parts of the pit were already there. So Dean picked his instrument up as a girl came over and started wheeling the timpani back with a grateful smile. The other teen nodded and then headed over to Chuck once the coast looked clear. “Thought this might come in handy,” he said as he held the book out.

“Wh—oh! Thank you Dean. I almost forgot that.”

_Well, you did._ “No problem.” Dean turned and headed to his starting set, flashing Garth a smile before he turned to face the front.

* * *

If he was being honest, Dean could confidentially say that they did _pretty damn good_ that day. But of course if Chuck asked him he would be pickier and point out those minor freaking things that only the judges would care about.

Dean supposed he should care too, but… at least he hit all his drill spots. That’s what he was going with.

After all of the pit equipment was brought back, Dean started to get ready to go home. He had promised Sammy a good dinner that night, and was going to stay true to his word if it was the last damn thing he ever did.

Sam took longer than Dean would have liked to finally reemerge from the band room, and was followed by Castiel.

The older boy sent his brother a look, but frowned when he saw a familiar expression on Sam’s face. That one he got when he was about to ask Dean for a favor.

“What is it, Sammy?” Dean asked suspiciously.

Sam cleared his throat. “Castiel’s ride bailed on him…” _Oh no_. Dean didn’t like where things were going. “So I was thinking you could give him a ride.”

Castiel’s lips parted as if he were about to say something, but Dean beat him to it. “Is that so?” He nodded again and before he could get a single word in, Dean sighed and adjusted his back on his shoulder. “Fine,” he agreed, turning and heading down the hall. “But he better respect Baby.”

Those words made Castiel’s brow pull together in confusion. Sam sighed and answered his question before it was even asked. “Dean’s car. He… has this weird thing—don’t ask.” He laughed lightly and followed after his brother, Castiel alongside him. “I never like to think too much about what would happen if he had to choose between his car and me,” Sam joked. “Probably ‘cause I think he’d end up driving home that day.”

“Meaning he would choose the car?” Castiel finally got the chance to speak up.

Sam laughed. “Exactly.”

Dean stuck his head around the corner up ahead, brows raised. “You slow pokes comin’ or what?” He rolled his eyes when the other two continued at their dreadfully slow pace, and then went outside to wait for them.

“Sam, I wouldn’t want to disrespect—“

“Relax, Castiel. Dean really doesn’t care.”

Castiel bit his lip. “Even so, I think it would be best to hasten.”

“Hasten?” A smile tipped the corners of Sam’s lips up. “Alright, alright.” He held his hands up in surrender and then started to walk a little faster, stepping outside and meeting a bored looking Dean, who mumbled a ‘finally’ before they all piled into the Impala.

Castiel looked around in appreciation and Dean grinned, running a hand along the dashboard. “I know. She’s a beauty.”

His comment was met with a nod, and Dean raised his brows a little as he watched Castiel. “Dude, relax.”

“Pardon?”

“You. You’re so… stiff.” Dean shrugged, and made a point of dropping his own shoulders in an effort of showing him. “It’s okay to just, like, chill.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes a little. “I believe that I am ‘like, chill’.” He put quotes around the words, which made Dean laugh. Yeah, he was a little quirky and maybe socially awkward at times too—he just didn’t get social cues sometimes. But overall, he really wasn’t that bad.

When Dean glanced in the mirror to the backseat, he saw his brother looking out the window and desperately trying to hide a smile. He shook his head a bit, but didn’t bring it up, simply following Castiel’s instructions to bring the boy home.

And as they neared his house, Dean’s eyes widened a little. “You _live_ here?” His mouth was practically hanging open at what in the trumpeter’s mind qualified as a freaking hotel. The kid’s house made his own seem like a shack and really put it to shame.

First of all, the driveway was so smooth and nice to drive on, probably because it had just been paved or something. There was no cracks in the paint, or crooked front steps. Castiel’s front stairs were nice and even and led up to a porch that roped around the side of the white house, and there looked to be probably a million windows all scattered around the front. He had a huge front yard with flowers and green grass. There was freaking _shrubbery_ out front. In Lawrence, Kansas. Like some shit out of a Hollywood movie. Dean probably looked awed as he peered up at the house, and when he finally looked back over to the other occupant of the car, he was looking a little uncomfortable.

Dean wet his lips. “Uh, nice place.”

“Thank you. And, thank you for giving me a ride as well. It was much appreciated.”

“No biggie.” Dean shrugged a little, and then said a short goodbye before he backed down the driveway.

From the back seat, Sam finally piped up. “Think you got some drool on your chin, Dean.”

“Oh shut up.” Dean said as he started down the road. He could hear Sam laughing in the back again and just tried to ignore him.

“So…” Sam drew the word out, and Dean just knew what was coming. “Does this mean you guys are friends now?”

“I just gave him a ride.”

“And….?”

Dean sighed. After a long moment of silence, and staring on Sam’s part, Dean finally held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, fine. He’s not _that_ bad. I guess. Happy now?”

He could feel Sam’s damn smirk before he saw it and then reached over to turn the radio on, ending the conversation in the most effective way he knew how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again~
> 
> So here's the second chapter for today. 
> 
> Next chapter: football game!
> 
> ~Fi <3


	8. Flags and Follies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo ~
> 
> So I am coming back from what could possibly be the longest hiatus in the history of ever.
> 
> I cannot apologize enough for seemingly abandoning this work. This is the first real fic I've put stock into, and I can't imagine not finishing it.
> 
> I was dealing with some very personal issues recently but am now back and have even written a few chapters ahead of time!! Who would have guessed, huh?
> 
> Anyway, thanks to anyone who had stuck with me this long, and I promise not to disappoint you again.
> 
> xx Fi <3

Football games meant staying long hours after school trying to remember where you stood on the field. They meant fretting over whether or not a pair of black socks was waiting in your bag to be tucked under the pant leg of your uniform. It promised a night of freezing your ass off on cold bleachers and cheering the team on as best you could with wind burnt cheeks and numb fingers. And they also meant that the band director’s level of stress went up tenfold.

“You’ve had this music for two  _ months  _ now. Why are we playing wrong notes? Check your key signature for chriss--for goodness sake.” Chuck rubbed a hand over his face, looking as exasperated as Dean felt. The band was gathered around their director in the band room and running through the music one last time before going out to practice on the field. There was one measure that Chuck had developed a particular aversion to, and it was grating on Dean’s nerves. If he had to play the same two goddamn half notes again he might lose his mind. Fortunately, the next rep seemed to be much more pleasing and the students were released. At least for the next fifteen minutes or so.

The moment he stepped out of the band room a shiny gold pole headed straight for his head. “Hey, watch it!” a voice yelled as Dean jerked back, nearly losing his balance. “These flags got a mind of their own.” Dark red hair sprayed back into a slick bun was the first thing he noticed before the loose hanging flag silk was pulled back and the girl smiled at him. “Oh. Hey, Losechester. Ready to kick some ass?” She wiggled her eyebrows. Dean rolled his eyes at Charlie’s antics and had to quickly sidestep the marimba that threatened to clip his side.

“That’s what I’m here for. Kickin’ names and taking ass.” Dean’s lips curled up as he looked down at his friend.

An eye roll was the response he received. “You ever gonna join us in the twenty-first century?”

“Hey, that’s only ‘98. And  _ Waterboy  _ was friggin’ hilarious.” Dean sent Charlie a look, daring her to challenge him.

“Yeah, if you like predictable and witless comic satire.”

He let out a laugh because leave it to Charlie to have a comeback for everything. That was part of the reason they had become friends. Dean had never paid much attention to what the color guard was doing until it came time to put everything together. He had always thought that twirling a flag was pretty easy, and anyone could pick it up. After befriending Charlie though, he had a lot more respect for the group and wouldn’t put up with any crap directed towards them. That may have been in part due to the humbling lesson Dean learned when he was handed a flag pole and promptly looked like a complete idiot when instructed to spin in. He couldn’t even do what Charlie called a “drop spin”, one of the most basic moves. It also inspired the nickname that Charlie so fondly called him. Losechester. He couldn’t win at everything, after all.

That of course, set Dean on a quest to learn how to do at least one of those dumb spin things. It only took about half of band camp, but by the fourth lunch break devoted to spinning a flag, he could finally do it in time. The congratulations he received from the girls had an odd feeling of pride swelling up in his chest, and the nickname was dropped. Promised only to be used on special occasions. Apparently football games prompted the honor of being designated “special occasions” _. _

Not only did Dean get a new little skill out of that whole fiasco - and lose an awful name - but he also got a friend. He spoke with Charlie more after that, and found that they he had quite a lot in common with the quirky girl. Maybe not as much of an appreciation for Hermione Granger as she did, but they both had harbored a crush on Carrie Fisher at one point in their lives. That, among other things, brought them closer. Along with Benny, Charlie was one of the few people Dean considered to be a close friend. She was almost like a sister to him. An annoying, never-shuts-up little sister, but family nonetheless.

“Can we talk about the predictable comic satire on top of your head right now?” he retorted with, reaching out to poke the hard mass of her hair, practically solid after a few good coats of hairspray.

His hand was swatted away and dark brown eyes glared at him. “It’s all part of the gig, dude. Cool it.” Dean knew how much Charlie really hated having her hair sprayed back like that though, so it was a little amusing to poke fun at her.

“I just don’t get why the band doesn’t get built in helmets.”

“It’s called a shako, idiot.” Charlie sighed and then tucked her small bundle of flags under her arm. “Sometimes I wonder how many baseballs you took to the head.”

“Enough to get me a home run.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Dean laughed. “You love me.” He could see that Charlie was doing her best not to smile, and it was a good enough response for him. With a mini salute, he turned and then went to find the rest of his section. The small pool of valve oil and the sight of tear-stained freshman cheeks alerted him of their presence almost immediately. A quiet sigh and some reassuring words later, the trumpet section was finally out on the field and setting up in their warm up block. Dean could look to his left and see the guard a little ways away, with Charlie standing at the front and leading their own review. The flag was kind of mesmerizing as it whipped through the air, and he was distracted for a moment watching them all spin together. But he soon heard the “One, two…” from Castiel up on the podium and was brought back to the present.

* * *

It was still light out. He hated the fact that these early games had the band walking out to the field under the still bright sky. Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was a certain comfort that the darkness brought. It could have just been the atmosphere. The small rush of adrenaline he got walking from the dark parking lot to the brightly lit field, the feeling of  _ this is a performance _ . There also was the fact that he didn’t feel quite so vulnerable. Minimizing the chance of being picked out from the crowd, they were just one mass, one unit; the marching band. He kind of liked it.

Chuck seemed pleased with their rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner”, which made it good enough for Dean. They shuffled on up to the bleachers and sat in the assigned section for the band, huddling together as best they could with instruments awkwardly settled in people's’ laps. Castiel had to sit down in the front with Chuck so he could conduct the stand tunes they would play periodically throughout the game. Though generally, the better the football team did the more music there was. It was kind of hard to play the school song to celebrate touchdowns when there were no actual touchdowns. 

Dean did enjoy a good game of football, but on nights like this he usually had his eyes glued to the clock, counting down until the end of the first half and more importantly, the beginning of the halftime show. The cheerleaders would go out and do their own little routine first, followed by the band.

The glowing yellow lights were starting to glaze over in his vision so Dean tore his eyes away, looking up when he heard loud cheering. Charlie had gotten the rest of the guard to stand up and they were enthusiastically participating in the cheerleader’s crowd rallying drills. He laughed softly and then turned back around, raising in surprise when he found blue eyes looking up at him. Castiel quickly faced the front again, and Dean was left feeling slightly perturbed.

He didn’t need to worry about it long though, because before he knew it there was five minutes left on the clock and Chuck was motioning for them all to get up. The band filed down to the track and then circled around to the back of the field, where they began to warm up and tune again. It was pretty cold out, so Castiel went around reminding everyone to blow warm air into their instruments. 

Dean nodded and eyed the other trumpet players. “Yeah, general rule of thumb. The colder it is, the flatter you’ll play. So; warm air is muy importante.” Garth let out a nervous laugh and licked his lips.

“Aren’t you nervous?” he asked, fiddling with his instrument. Dean shook his head and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Nothin’ to be nervous about. They don’t know our show.” He gestured to the crowd. “And sometimes people don’t even watch. I know, it sucks. But if they do, as long as you pretend you know what you’re doing, no one could give a damn. Chuck might. But you’re safe from his wrath ‘till we get inside.” That only made Garth look more pale, and Dean chuckled. “You’ll be fine. You know what you’re doing, trust me.”

“As I always say,” a voice interrupted, and Charlie appeared behind them, flags tucked neatly against her shoulder. “When in doubt; flourish out. Although… that might not be the best idea with your horns.” She pursed her lips and gave a quick shrug. “Ah well. Live long and prosper, bitches.” Charlie grinned and then slipped back over to the huddle of color guard members.

Dean turned back to his group. “Right. Heed her words of wisdom and we should be pretty good.” He smiled widely, and received a few upturned mouths in return. “Awesome.”

The clock finally zeroed down, and after waiting a couple minutes for the cheerleaders to finish up, the band marched onto the field. Dean’s fingers were numb where they held his trumpet, but by now he had his music fairly memorized so the muscle memory would help him out.

As was expected, the first halftime show turned out to be somewhat of a mess. That was one of the disadvantages to having a lot of new members; the uncertainty and slip-ups that wouldn’t normally happen. They hadn’t yet learned some of the tricks the older kids had long ago figured out. In time they would, so Dean wasn’t too worried. The show wasn’t even that bad, looking back.

Of course, there was marching on wrong beats and bad tone from some of the more nervous students, and even a couple of close calls with the flags. All in all, Chuck looked pleased as they roll stepped off of the field and came together to listen to him speak. “Now, I don’t wanna boost your egos too much, but that was pretty freaking great, you guys.” He grinned and clapped his hands together. “Obviously, there are… some things we need to work on. But you guys have been working really hard. I’m proud of you.” There were brief smiles exchanged before he said more urgently, “Now go help with the pit equipment.” And off they went.

The entire ride home, Sam excitedly spoke about the game. Mostly he had goofed off with the other pit members up near the top of the bleachers, and was reciting their lame jokes, but Dean was happy for him. Sam had always seemed to have trouble making friends, and to have these new friends be people Dean already trusted was just an added bonus.

Pulling into the driveway, Dean wasn’t really sure what he expected. The headlights shone across the asphalt and illuminated the puddles from the light shower of rain on the way home. What wasn’t illuminated was the lights on the back of his father’s car. John was still out, and God knew where he was. There was a silence between the brothers that stretched out for an uncomfortably long time, but was eventually broken by Dean clearing his throat to say, “You have any of that pizza Chuck bought?”

Sam smiled weakly and nodded his head, one hand clutching the frayed strap of his backpack. “Yeah, it was good. Kinda like the one we ordered last week. Except without the gross sausage.”

“Hey, that crap was delicious.” Dean pointed a finger at him accusingly.

“For a heathen, maybe.” A laugh was coaxed from Sam when the older boy glared at him.

“I don’t know where I went wrong,” he muttered as he walked up to the front door, going through his keys to find the one that would unlock the house. He could hear his brother laughing behind him as he lugged his bag up the steps. Dean was seriously growing worried about the kid. His backpack was almost twice the size of him, and even though he swore up and down that all of the textbooks he carried were needed and necessary, Dean was wondering if his brother was just skipping the extra trip to his locker for another reason. It wouldn’t be the first. Just because he had made friends with the band kids didn’t mean everyone else would suddenly be open arms and warm smiles about everything. There were still some pretty nasty people in their school.

Sam usually went to bed pretty early, which led to Dean teasing him about being an old man. As a result, he barely got his pajamas on before collapsing into bed. Dean checked on him on the way to his own room. “You all set, bud?”

“Mm,” came the reply from his pillow. Sam turned his head and smiled up at his brother. “Night Dean. Love you.”

Dean rapped his knuckles lightly on the door frame. For some reason, he never had liked saying that. It was always too mushy-cheesy chick flick for him. Those words carried a lot of weight too. Obviously he did love his brother - that kid was his freaking world most days - but Dean preferred to show it through what he did, rather than what he said. Words could only mean so much. “Yeah,” he took a step back and carefully added, “Love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo here it is! The rest I am currently working on and I hope to update at least once a week, maybe more. I am really excited to get back into the swing of things, and would love to hear any comments or critiques you guys have!


	9. Poor Presentations from Great Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... here's the next chapter! Anyone else surprised I actually managed to update in time? Really though, I have the next couple of chapters planned out so I'm pretty excited! I might even start going back to add summaries to each of the chapters, just to make it a little more clear what's happening. Idk though. I hope you enjoy and please feel free to leave me some feedback! I always appreciate it xx

After spending a few years around him, Dean felt that he was fairly capable of gauging Chuck’s mood just from looking at him. On one particular Tuesday afternoon, he seemed to be vibrating with a cautious sort of excitement. Knowing better than to ask him directly, Dean sought out the next closest person to Chuck that he knew of; Castiel.

Dean found the dark-haired boy filing away some music and muttering quietly to himself. “Hey.” He knocked their shoulders together lightly, ignoring the slight flicker of irritation across teen’s face. “You know what’s up with Shurley over there? I’m thinkin’ he finally lost that crazy wife of his.”

Dean swore he saw Castiel’s lips twitch up, an almost imperceptible smile flickering across his lips. “Becky is a… kind woman.”

He laughed. “Even you gotta see that she’s outta her mind.” The drum major finally dragged his eyes over to meet Dean’s, watching him carefully for a moment. Castiel had this way of looking at him that just made Dean feel like he was being picked apart. It was unnerving, really.

“She is eccentric, yes.” Castiel shrugged and carefully replaced the last folder in his stack. “But I see no reason to hold that against her.”

“That’s ‘cause you ain’t married to her.”

Dean felt oddly satisfied as the boy turned to face him, giving his full attention. “Is there something you want, Dean?”

“What, we ain’t even on speaking terms anymore? I thought we’d gotten over that, Nosack.” Dean had to work to keep the faux pout on his lips. Castiel simply stared at him with an unamused expression, mouth drawn into a thin line.

Dean held his hands up in a faux gesture of surrender. “Alright, alright. Geez.” He leaned back against the heavy desk covered in miscellaneous sheets of music and various mallets for the percussion, along with a few other things. It was the catch-all for the various bits and bobbles that accompanied their instruments. Chuck was always nagging his students about cleaning it, but had his fair share of junk piled on the desktop and shoved into drawers. “I was only wonderin’ if you knew what’s got Mr. Shurley bouncing off the walls. Think he shoulda realized by now he’s living in a fool’s paradise.”

“I can assure you his happiness is not based on wishful thinking.”

Dean grinned and pushed himself up, now interested. “So you  _ do  _ know.”

Once again, Castiel’s brow wrinkled in annoyance and he turned away from Dean, signaling the end to their conversation.

Dean’s lips twisted downwards in displeasure, but he dropped the topic anyway. If Castiel didn’t want to talk it would be very hard to get anything out of him. Hopefully Chuck would explain what had him so jittery before practice started. They were due to work on the show for three hours after school, and Dean was in no way ready to effectively do that without first knowing what was on the director’s mind.

He was momentarily distracted by a voice calling his name and Dean turned to see Garth waving with a smile that looked too big for his face. The older boy walked over to him with eyes that shined in amusement. “Well what’s got you such a happy camper?”

Skinny arms immediately held up a crumpled paper in front of his face, with a thick red number 76 circled on the front. “I passed my first Spanish test!” Garth practically shouted. “That is… muy,  _ muy  _ bueno for me.”

Dean was unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face. Garth’s happiness was kind of infectious. “Man, that’s awesome.” He clapped him proudly on the arm. “See? I told you; studying has been known to occasionally create spiked levels of grade point average.”

Garth was still waving around the test happily as he crossed the room to set his things down, and Dean rolled his eyes fondly. He was a funny kid, that was for sure. But Dean wouldn’t mind hanging out with him.

After everyone had their instruments out Chuck stepped up to the small podium that he usually conducted from and held his hands up for them to quiet down. The chatter didn’t die down as fast as he would like and the man cleared his throat. “Alright guys, I have some very important news to deliver. Eyes and ears, please.” He flashed a tight smile and then fiddled with some music left on his stand. “Castiel and I had a discussion a couple of weeks ago, but things hadn’t been finalized until the weekend. Lost paperwork and missed phone calls…”

He cleared his throat awkwardly, which earned some light laughter from the students. Dean looked over to see that even Castiel looked amused. He smiled, then turned his attention back to Chuck. “But I am proud to announce that this year we will officially be competing - for the first time, mind you - in the Kansas Bandmasters Association Marching Competition.” Chuck barely got the last word out before excited murmurs arose from the students, and it took a minute to grab their attention again. “Guys.  _ Guys _ .” He pushed a hand through his hair, then gripped the edge of the podium. “I get it, this is exciting. But remember, this is a privilege. We can’t go slacking off now, understand?”

A rather monotonous chorus of, “Yes, Mr. Shurley,” followed his words.

The man didn’t seem to notice though, and clapped his hands together. “Right. Well, let’s get on with it. Horns up. Castiel, can you give us a B flat please?”

The band tuned and ran through their show songs before being sent out to the field to run drill. There were still a few sets in the last song that needed to be learned, so Mr. Shurley  had the drum major focus on running through that. Their pace was much faster than prior years, and Dean found himself struggling to keep up.

He wasn’t the only one either. It felt like Chuck cut them off more times in a half hour than all of the previous week. He was more snappy and agitated when someone made a mistake, which seemed to happen far too often for the band director’s liking. He was red in the face from shouting out the counts of each set by the end, and kept them nearly ten minutes over the time they were supposed to end. There were the kind of practices that Dean hated, and left him questioning why he ever continued participating in the group.

When Chuck seemed satisfied with the last run through of the final set, he motioned for everyone to gather around him. He waited until the entire band was standing before him and was quiet before speaking. “Guys…” Chuck looked around the group. “This is not the band I signed up for competition. What happened out there today is not something I want repeated. Understand?”

“But Mr. Shurley you really pushed us—”

“Winchester, that’s enough.”

“I’m just saying—”

“ _ Enough _ , Dean.” He put his hands on his temples, gently massaging the skin as if the whole affair of their practice was too much to handle. Dean felt he was being rather dramatic, though he was wise enough not to voice that particular comment. “Alright, that’s enough for today. Everyone head back to the band room. I’ll see you all tomorrow after school. Make sure to look through the drill tonight, and be ready for practice tomorrow. Remember what I told you about this competition; don’t take it for granted.”

Dean bit back another retort as Chuck dismissed them. He really didn’t need to be doing anything else to piss the man off, seeing as he’d stepped out of line once already. So instead of giving Chuck a real piece of his mind, as Dean had been planning, he simply turned and trudged after the rest of the students into the bandroom.

As Dean was putting his trumped away he felt someone behind him and looked over his shoulder to see Garth, toothy grin and all.

“Uh, hey man. What’s up?”

Garth awkwardly tried to adjust his backpack and trumpet case to one arm, and then gave Dean a crooked thumbs up. “I just wanted to say, that was really cool what you did back there.”

Dean arched a brow, snapping closed his case. “What, the drill?”

“No, I mean trying to stand up to Mr. Shurley. I never would have done that. You have mad cajones my friend.”

“Oh.” Dean stood up and faced the younger boy. “Uh, thanks. I think.”

Garth grinned, adjusting his hold on the trumpet when it nearly clattered to the floor. “Yeah, anytime. My mom used to always tell me ‘whatever you put up with, you end up with’. Now I haven’t exactly been living by that sweet motto, but you’ve definitely taken it on, which is really cool.” He tried to maneuver his trumpet to the other hand again before finally relenting and setting the instrument on the ground.

Dean watched Garth with a faintly amused expression on his face as the boy awkwardly fumbled in front of him, reaching out to help with his trumpet before anything too disastrous happened. “You know, that’s actually pretty good advice.” He paused, then cocked his head slightly as he chuckled. The kid did have a point. Maybe he could talk to Castiel about asking Chuck to go a little easier on them. “Damn, Garth. That’s… yeah, man. Thanks for that.”

“Hey.” Garth smiled bashfully and shrugged his bony shoulders. “Like my mom says, I’m full of  _ okunnighet _ .”

“What’s that mean?”

“No idea. But it sounds really cool.”

Dean laughed, clapping Garth on the shoulder. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay?” Garth waved goodbye as Dean found Sam and together the brothers left the band room, with the trumpet player hoping that their next practice would run much smoother.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello~  
> So I feel that I've kind of abandoned my other WiP :( It's been..a long time. I'll try and get back to it I hope?
> 
> Anyway, I've decided at least to start fresh with this. It's fall, so I'm turning over a new leaf (oh dear I should not be allowed to try and make jokes). I will definitely try and update this a LOT more frequently so...
> 
> You can let me know if you see any mistakes and I'll do my best to fix them. 
> 
> ~Fi <3


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